


Desired Results

by sternfleck



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Awkward Kylo Ren, Come Eating, Coming Untouched, Explicit Consent, Finger Sucking, Hand & Finger Kink, Hand Worship, Humiliation, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Pre-Star Wars: The Force Awakens, Touch-Starved, Virgin Armitage Hux, intercarpal sex, or as the pros say, wrist fucking, wrist kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:06:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24195613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sternfleck/pseuds/sternfleck
Summary: It’s a good thing the General wears gloves, because the hands he’s covering up are far too enticing to resist. Just ask Kylo Ren.
Relationships: Armitage Hux/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 30
Kudos: 113





	Desired Results

**Author's Note:**

> There must be Kylux wrist-fucking fics out there. But I’ve never read one, and I really wanted to write one. Be the change, and all that. I may be two years late for the wrist party, but let’s be real: Hux’s wrists are eternal.

The worst thing about Kylo Ren would be hard to pinpoint—the list, after all, is long—but the best thing about Kylo Ren is how kriffing obvious he is. The boy has never heard of subtlety, or, if he’s heard of it, the concept never stuck in his mind. Hux has learned that few things do.

Those wide brown eyes of Ren’s take in everything around him, and all his observations pass straight through his head as though his big ears are letting them out again. But Ren’s undisguised emotions make up for his stupidity. Hux has never had any natural skill at reading people, and is prone to missing social cues, but with Ren, it’s easy. His thoughts and feelings show plainly on his speckled, innocent, infuriatingly handsome face.

At the moment, Ren is indulging in his favourite new habit, which also happens to be Hux’s least favourite of Ren’s habits. Smashing consoles is near the top of the list, but at least Ren doesn’t fly into his fits of rage on purpose, however much Hux would like to blame his new co-commander’s sheer caprice for the broken equipment all over the _Finalizer_. Ren’s new trick, though, is far worse than shoving his lightsaber through a holoprojector’s hardware.

Ren’s new trick is this: to dog Hux’s footsteps at every turn throughout the day, masked and eerie, and then to appear in Hux’s quarters at night, unmasked and plaintive, to gaze at Hux with wide eyes while the General does his work for the First Order. 

At first Hux had thought this was Ren’s attempt to intimidate him. From Ren’s first day on the ship, when Hux’s newly appointed co-commander choked one of Hux’s officers with the Force, it’s been clear Ren has a fondness for intimidation. But Hux has never shown Ren fear—he has no fear to give the foolish boy with the pink pout and the melting dark eyes—and in spite of this, Ren still spends the bulk of his free hours in Hux’s orbit, circling him like a pitiful satellite with no resources of its own.

It was at that point Hux was forced to consider that Kylo Ren might be suffering from an infatuation. Or, not suffering. Unlike Hux, Ren seems to actually enjoy this.

Tonight, Ren is crouched on Hux’s ice-blue sofa, hugging his knees to his chest and staring. His vile feet are bare, since he followed Hux’s strict policy and removed his boots at the door to Hux’s quarters. Hux is at his desk, across the seating area from Ren’s perch. He’s only reading officer reports on his datapad, but Ren’s eyes track his every move.

When Hux sips from his thermal mug of tea, Ren stares at his lips. When Hux huffs and flares his nostrils at an inferior’s ill-placed conjecture about Order strategies, Ren stares at his nose. When Hux grows nervous under this attention and touches his hairstyle to make sure it’s all still in order, Ren stares at his hair. And when Hux navigates to a new document on his datapad, or tugs at his uniform collar to loosen it, or stifles a yawn with his fingers over his mouth, Ren stares at his hands.

Hux isn’t wearing his gloves. His hands have been dry lately, since he authorised a one-degree drop in the ship’s ambient temperature for the sake of energy conservation. When he’s on the bridge, he would never dream of breaking uniform regulations, but in his quarters, he applies moisturising oil regularly and lets his skin breathe. The oil soaks quickly into Hux’s skin, and right now it’s time for Hux to put on some more. But what would Ren do if he watched Hux oil his hands? That sort of grooming ritual disgusts Hux—he has no wish to even consider the steps other people take to maintain their bodies—but Ren’s fixation is so intense that a glimpse of Hux’s self-care might have the opposite effect on him.

Does Hux want that? Does he want to encourage Ren, or cut this off before it turns into whatever it’s threatening to become? He isn’t sure. His lack of experience with sex and romance has always been an asset to him so far, in that it kept him disciplined, preventing attachments and distractions. But now the young General is out of his depth with a boy five years younger. A former Jedi apprentice, no less. Brendol Hux would turn in his grave.

That’s enough of a reason, Hux reflects, to consider things with Kylo Ren.

The bottle of oil is in his desk drawer. He withdraws it and drizzles a small pool of it into his palm. It’s dark golden, thick, cloudy, with the toasted scent of the kukuia nuts it was pressed from. Hux rubs his palms together, interlacing his fingers. He strokes each slick palm over the backs of his hands, where the skin is thin enough to show the milk-blue veins beneath. With his fingertips, he massages each hand until the oil begins to soak in, and he sighs at the relief from the tension he’s carried all day in his clenched fists.

He shoves his shoulders back so that his uniform cuffs recede up his arms, baring his wrists. Then he circles each wrist with his oiled fingers—narrow, his wrists have always been so narrow—and rubs the kukuia oil into his pale skin, where the bones stick out and the veins are bright.

He glances up. Ren’s jaw is slack, his arms tight around his knees. His immodest lips hang slightly open.

“What are you going to do?” Ren asks, absurdly.

Hux draws his eyebrows together. Do? What else is there to do besides oiling his hands and getting back to his work? What Ren does is his own business, but Hux has more reports to read, more strategies to approve, always more care to be taken to ensure the First Order is working at its best.

Ren’s gaze drops to where, if the desk were not in the way, his eyes would be fixed on Hux’s crotch.

“You know,” he says, in a pointed way. “Aren’t you going to...?”

Hux’s puzzlement deepens. Is Ren suggesting...? Surely even he wouldn’t be so bold.

“It’s kukuia oil,” says Ren with significance, as though that’s supposed to mean something specific to Hux. “It’s for—that’s what people use to—never mind. Forget it.”

“Are you talking about masturbation?” Hux says, half-surprised at his own cold boldness. “Ren. Did you expect me to pleasure myself at my desk for you to watch? You’re even more of a loathsome little pervert than I thought.”

Wide-eyed, Ren shivers. He hugs his knees tighter and curls his feet until the ragged ends of his toenails are touching the velvet of Hux’s sofa. Hux will need to have a droid in to disinfect it.

Then, Ren has the gall to smirk.

“Do you want to? I can read your mind. You were showing off for me. Because you figured out I like your hands.”

How frustrating. Hux had forgotten Ren’s inconvenient ability. It’s easy to forget he’s a mind-reader, largely because Ren does what he pleases regardless of Hux’s thoughts about his actions.

“Of course I’m not going to touch myself, you beast. I’m in the middle of my work. That’s not what this oil is for, anyway. Haven’t you ever had dry skin?”

Abruptly Hux recalls that Ren has spent most of his life on planets, according to his file. He’s only been on the _Finalizer_ for a few months. Hardly long enough to get used to the health maintenance routine of life on a Star Destroyer, especially for a young man who seems incapable of learning from the consequences of his actions. 

“Come here,” Hux orders. “I’ll show you how I do it. Then you’ll know.”

Ren’s eyes flare with something that isn’t anger. He rises fluidly to his feet and approaches Hux’s desk. It always surprises Hux, the way Ren moves. Ren’s stillness is round-shouldered and awkward, but in motion, all his gawky limbs coalesce into unexpected elegance.

Hux stands to greet him. Even at his full height, he’s a few centimetres shorter than Ren, but it’s better than sitting while Ren looms over him like a storm. Ren pauses at the desk. He’s too close, as usual. Hux doesn’t back away.

“Sit,” he says, gesturing not at the chair, but at the top of his desk. He pulls his datapad out of the way.

When Ren sits on Hux’s desk, his awkwardness returns. He hunches, legs spread. Hux is struck, not for the first time, by the strength in those hunched shoulders. The raw physical power there. Ren blinks at Hux, their eyes level.

“What are you going to do?” Ren asks again.

Without breaking eye contact, Ren flips the skirt of his own tunic aside with one broad dark-gloved hand. Presumptuous little fuck. Hux allows himself a glance down. Ren isn’t hard yet, which is something of a surprise. But even soft, the cock outlined in his leggings is impressive.

“I’m not going to do _that_ for you, Ren. If you’re such an authority on self-stimulation, surely you’re capable of taking care of yourself in that regard. I’m going to show you how I care for my hands, since you’ve shown such an interest.” 

“Kinky,” observes Ren, his beautiful face void of expression. Hux scowls.

“It’s nothing of the sort. The air on starships can be punishingly dry. I’m surprised your skin stays so—”

As Ren’s mouth threatens to smirk again, Hux decides that’s not a sentence he wants to finish. If Ren is a mind-reader, surely he can detect Hux’s unfortunate admiration for his appearance. There’s no need to get flirtatious. Hux has never been good at that, anyway.

“I sweat a lot,” says Ren by way of explanation. He’s deadpan, but his words are still altogether suggestive. “You should try it, General. I could give you some tips. Some training.”

“My own routines are perfectly adequate,” Hux replies, ignoring the heat rising in his cheeks. “Here, hand me that bottle. And remove your gloves, unless you want to ruin them with oil.

Ren practically tears his gloves off, with no respect for the leather. He throws them on the desk like rubbish. His hands are big, as though he hasn’t grown into them yet, even though, at 25, he ought to have attained his adult proportions. He’s like a young animal—clumsily built, earnest, volatile.

Closing his thick fingers around the bottle of oil, Ren shoves it into Hux’s hand as though he’s bestowing an award. Hux tips the bottle until it spills a few more golden drops into his palm. Not enough to waste resources, but enough to demonstrate his technique.

“See here,” he says. “Like this. Your turn now.”

Hux hands the bottle back to Ren, but Ren doesn’t imitate him. Instead, he places the oil back on the desk beside one of his strong thighs.

“I don’t want to,” Ren says, with a petulance that reminds Hux that Ren, by birth, is allegedly some sort of prince. “I told you, my skin is good. I want to watch you again.”

As always. Hux almost snorts, but catches himself. He should be flattered by the attention, not exasperated. Ren is handsome, after all, if Hux were the sort of man who cared about such things. And showing his hands to a handsome young man is an innocent enough activity. It’s only Hux’s own foolish nervousness that makes this encounter feel like the thin end of the wedge.

Hux drags his thumb through the pool of oil in his palm, circling, spreading it out. He repeats his previous actions—places his palms together, strokes the backs of his hands, coats each finger, slicks each nail by pinching it between the side of his index finger and the pad of his thumb. His skin glistens in the pale light. All the while, Ren watches intently, lips parted. At this distance, Hux can smell him, his ashen, herbal smell, like a temple long abandoned to the winds of space. It blends with the toasted scent of the oil, until Hux, unexpectedly, finds a feeling rising in his throat that’s almost a hunger.

“Your wrists,” says Ren.

“What?”

“Before. You did your wrists. With your fingers around them, like you were. You know.”

Hux stares at him, hesitating, and of course Ren takes his hesitation as an invitation to get explicit.

“Jerking off.”

“I’m clear on your meaning,” Hux snaps, suppressing a flinch. “I’m just. I’ve never heard of anyone having a sexual fixation with _wrists_ , for stars’ sake.” 

“It’s not a fetish. Yours are just...nice. Nicer than other men’s. Elegant. Delicate.”

Ren brings his hand up to Hux’s, ghosting his fingertips along the heel of Hux’s palm. When he closes his hand around Hux’s wrist, his grip is strong, and his hand is so broad that his thumb and fingers overlap.

Hux’s mouth is suddenly very wet. He swallows. Ren watches his throat bob, eyes inscrutable and dark. Then he trails the calloused pad of his thumb up the underside of Hux’s wrist, where the skin is thin above the veins and fascia. Hux shivers, and Ren sees it, the way Ren sees everything.

“Will you let me fuck them?”

The proposition fails to reach Hux’s brain for a moment. He’s too caught in the way Ren’s mouth moves around that word. The spit-wet shine of his lips. The scent of him. Hux is standing too close to Ren’s spread legs, but with Ren’s hand around his wrist, he couldn’t back away even if he wanted to.

“Excuse me?”

“Can I fuck your wrists, Hux? Will you let me? They’re slippery already.”

“That’s not even possible. No one does that. There’s no...no orifice. It wouldn’t work.”

Ren snorts, amused, though his face still wears its customary masklike pout. “It would be like fucking your thighs. But you’d be appalled by that idea too, wouldn’t you, General?”

Hux’s face is burning now, truly. He wonders if he’s coming down with some sort of fever. The heat is in his chest, too, and in the lowest regions of his belly, where it coils and writhes like a rathtar.

“I’m not appalled, Ren. I’m sceptical. How would this act lead to the desired result? Are you even serious? Is this a joke at my expense?”

“ _The desired result,_ ” Ren repeats, mocking. “I’m serious, Hux. Look at them.” He strokes his thumb over the soft underside of Hux’s wrist again, and Hux’s knees lose a measure of their steadiness. With effort, he catches his breath.

“All right,” he says. “But don’t blame me if it isn’t what you expect. I’m only skin and bone there.”

Ren drops Hux’s wrist and brings his hands to the high waistband of his leggings. He gives Hux a look that’s almost pitying, as though there’s something fundamental in their exchange that Hux is failing to understand. But Hux refuses to feel ashamed of his inexperience. Ren is the one responsible for this. Hux is only an innocent caught in his perverse scheme.

But oh, does Hux feel complicit as Ren folds his waistband over and tugs his leggings down to his knees. Ren isn’t wearing underwear. His cock springs out immediately, large and dark red. It curves towards Ren’s belly, wet at the cut head, disgusting and tempting all at once. It’s not as thick as one of Hux’s wrists, but it’s close enough for the comparison to come to mind and leave Hux dizzy and wide-eyed, biting back an awed curse.

“You’re nervous.” Ren blinks at him.

“I’m not nervous,” Hux lies, refusing to look at Ren’s cock. “Your telepathy needs refining.”

Hux ignores Ren’s snarl at the insult to his uncanny powers. He pushes his shoulders back and clasps his hands together, still uncertain how Ren expects this to work.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather have my hands?” Hux asks. It’s not that he particularly wants to touch Ren’s cock, but that would at least be a more rational act, a thing some men do for each other even in the sterile, regulated landscape of the First Order. Ren’s cock sliding between Hux’s pale tight wrists, though...that’s something out of a different region of the Galaxy. Something baffling, and nasty, and perhaps even dangerous.

Ren has the bottle of kukuia oil in his hand, squirting too much of it into his palm. He slides his hand down the length of his shaft, slicking it, eyes falling shut at the sensation. Then he shakes his head.

“I don’t deserve your hands yet. I need to purify my spiritual essence before I can give myself to you completely.”

Completely? Oh, no. Hux is no believer in Ren’s Force mysticism, but if Ren considers this some sort of bonding pact, Hux will have to correct his mistake.

“I’m offering to masturbate you, not marry you.”

“But you’re a virgin. Your energy is powerful. Everything we do together has ritual significance.”

Hux tightens his mouth. Typical of Ren to use his psychic abilities to snoop into Hux’s sexual history, or lack thereof. The gifts of the Force are wasted on this petty boy and his weak, obsessive mind.

“There’s nothing significant about any of this, ritually or otherwise. I’m indulging you for the benefit to our alliance as co-commanders of this starship.” 

Ren has the gall to roll his long-lashed eyes. “Just put your elbows together, Hux. There. Good. Like that.”

One of Ren’s great hands is around Hux’s clasped ones. The other holds his cock at the base, where it begins in a nest of dark curls, balls drawn up tight below it. Ren brings Hux’s hands down and holds his cock still as he pushes the swollen head of it between Hux’s slick wrists.

It’s an odd sensation for Hux, like nothing he’s ever felt, but it’s clearly pleasurable for Ren. His eyes fall shut, dark lashes sharp against his speckled cheeks.

“Yes, Hux, that’s right. I knew it would be good. Elbows tight. Ah.”

Ren is guiding Hux’s hands with his, grip warm and heavy as he controls the pace and the depth. There’s nothing for Hux to do but keep his elbows together and his shoulders back, so that his uniform sleeves stay out of the way. He’s not sure where to turn his gaze—to Ren’s face, where his eyelashes flicker and his breaths tremble with pleasure? Or lower, at the lewd spectacle of Ren’s red cock head rubbing between Hux’s wrists?

Once he looks down, Hux can’t look away. He’s seen other men’s genitals before, of course, in communal refreshers and practical jokes at the Academy. But this is different, because there’s desire involved. Specific desire from Ren, who wants, of all people, Hux. The evidence of that desire, stiff and slick and scarlet between Hux’s white arms, so close to the stripes on his sleeve that show his rank. Hux is keeping his breaths level, in spite of the heat in his cheeks and the way his lips are burning, but even so, he’s lightheaded when he thinks of how he’s done this to Ren, how he’s made him swell and ache and gasp for Hux’s touch.

Hux still isn’t fully sure what Ren is getting from this. His wrists don’t have enough flesh to envelop Ren’s cock, which slides between them with only the barest line of friction on each side and at the top, where the heels of Hux’s hands meet. But Ren’s face is tense with bliss. When he throws his head back, his luxurious hair shifts, and Hux can see how Ren’s ears have flushed a tender, indecent pink.

“Say something,” Ren urges, his voice roughened.

“This is...working better than I expected.”

Ren opens his eyes. He moves Hux’s wrists quicker on his cock as he fixes Hux with a look.

“No, no. Say something mean. Degrade me. Fuck.” His eyes shut again, and his mouth contorts with a spasm of pleasure. His cock jumps, and Hux feels the twitch of it between his wrists, hot and alive.

Hux says the first thing that comes to mind, in a voice that seems too full of breath to be his own. “Your work is inadequate. You’re undisciplined. If you were one of my men I’d send you to Reconditioning.”

“Ah, Hux, not about work, fuck.”

“You’re...you’re a sick creature who can’t control his desires. A spoiled boy. You’re rubbing yourself all over my wrists because you’re too impure to deserve my touch.”

Ren tips his head back again, mouth open. For the first time Hux notices Ren’s teeth are very sharp.

“Yes, Hux, please. More. Oh, Hux.”

Hux sucks in his breath to hear Ren moan his name like that, helpless and desperate. Hux is very hard, and has been for a while, but now his desire is insistent, verging on need. He can feel his pulse in the head of his cock, where it’s dripping pre-come into his Order-issue briefs. If he could get some friction, just a touch, it would be ecstasy...but both his hands and Ren’s are occupied, and he’s not going to rut against Ren’s bare knee. He’s a General of the First Order. He’s above that.

“Is this what they do in the New Republic, Ren? Is this how your little Rebel friends taught you to fuck? You’re dissipated. Ruined. Do you fuck your own wrists in the sonic like a filthy beast?”

The insults draw a moan out of Ren from deep in his chest. He screws his eyes shut tight. “Nuh, Hux, ah, just yours. Yours, Hux, yours, _fuck_ , yours.” 

This shouldn’t drive Hux’s desire to new heights, to hear this spoiled slut of a Jedi prince say _yours yours yours_ and moan Hux’s name like there will never be anyone else for Kylo Ren, not now that he’s had his cock between Hux’s bony wrists and heard Hux say a few mean things. It shouldn’t, but it does. Hux bites his lip and shuts his eyes and takes a long breath through his nose. 

Ren is still saying his name, moaning it, fucking into Hux’s grasp with clumsier strokes. He’s getting close.

Hux has an idea to turn his wrists so there’s more friction for the lower side of Ren’s cock. That’s where Hux likes to touch himself when he’s close, right under the head, where the nerve endings are thick and the pleasure is dizzying. Ren lets him shift his angle. Ren’s hand on his is getting tighter, a bruising grip, but Hux doesn’t mind. The ache keeps him steady in the moment. Focused.

Ren moans louder at the new stimulation. His legs spread farther apart, and his hips buck into Hux’s wrists, his cock twitching again. Ren slides his hand around the base of it up and down, stroking himself quickly even as he keeps his rhythm between Hux’s forearms.

He must be close to losing himself any second. But just when Hux thinks Ren is about to come, Ren opens his eyes and stares down at his lap, his flushed lips parted, showing his teeth.

“Fuck,” he hisses, ragged, thrusting faster. “Look at this, it’s so fucking hot, Hux, your little wrists around my big cock...”

Hux is looking, and has been looking, and, stars, he never thought he would like to be called _little_ , but Ren’s cock is so big it’s almost alien, and Hux may be thin and slight but he can still do this to Ren, can bring him to the edge of a wild pleasure that Hux has never witnessed on anyone else’s face. Before Hux can stop himself, his breath catches and he murmurs brokenly, “Ren, _yes_.” 

Ren lets go of Hux’s hands and comes, spurt after spurt of white from his cock’s rosy head. His eyes roll back before they shut. As his muscles go taut and then weak, Ren moans Hux’s name.

It’s a lot of come. It’s thick all over Hux’s interlaced fingers. Ropes of it cling to Hux’s wrists like white bracelets. Ren’s orgasm has shot all the way up to Hux’s sleeve. Hux pauses for a moment, mouth going dry, when he sees how Ren’s spend has splashed across the black and white stripes that show Hux’s rank as General.

Ren, slumped over and breathless, tilts his head to meet Hux’s eyes.

“It worked,” he murmurs. “I was right.”

For a moment, still lost in the image of Ren’s come drying on his rank stripes, Hux has no idea what Ren means. Then he remembers their argument over the logistics of fucking Hux’s wrists. Of course Ren can’t keep from gloating, even after an orgasm. No manners, no decency. Not even any common sense.

Mouth pinched with disdain, Hux stretches out his fingers and proffers his forearms to Ren. “Clean me up,” he says. “You rude little ingrate.”

Hux expects Ren to take out a handkerchief or wipe him clean with his tunic’s pleated sleeve. But of course that’s nowhere near depraved enough for Kylo Ren. After pulling up his leggings and tucking his softening cock back into place, Ren bends to Hux’s sleeve, his obscene lips open. His tongue slips out and skates across the sleek fabric of Hux’s uniform tunic and the rougher piping of his stripes. His mouth makes wet, filthy noises as he laps up his own come and swallows it.

Hux flinches at the aching twinge that shoots through his cock at the sight. Ren’s hair is spilling into his face, and the scent of ash rises from it. He looks so compliant, licking Hux’s sleeve clean of the mess he’s made. For all his chaos and his violence and his mysticism and his hauteur, Ren in his quiet moments is a creature Hux could learn to get along with. 

Then Ren’s mouth lands on the top of Hux’s wrist, and Hux’s mind, in an instant, is bereft of anything but pleasure.

Hux has made a noise, he’s still making noises, humiliating little gasps and moans that he can’t seem to keep back as Ren slides his tongue along the oiled skin of his wrist and the back of his hand. His knees are unsteady, and he twitches his hips forward as though he could regain his proper balance if Ren would only touch him where he needs it. But Ren kisses both his wrists instead, and then kisses his hands, messily slurping his own come away from Hux’s clenched fingers.

“Sensitive,” Ren says, his eyes gleaming from beneath his curtain of hair. He looks monstrous like this, with his pupils blown and his lips coated in his own spend. Like a dark entity native to a planet where Hux would never go.

But Hux can’t deny Ren’s accusation. Every graze of Ren’s lips is wearing away the parts of Hux that made him hold himself above such base physical pursuits as this. Even Ren’s breath on his skin is pure pleasure, searing black and hot through the depths of Hux’s gut. Hux wants to plead and surrender and pull away, all at once. But all he can do is shut his eyes and feel Ren’s lips, his tongue, his breath. 

When Ren slides his tongue over the dip at the back of Hux’s thumb, Hux’s vision loses its focus. He shuts his eyes. Then Ren turns Hux’s hand over, pressing a dizzying open-mouthed kiss to the thin skin on the underside of Hux’s wrist, where it’s chafed from the friction of Ren’s cock. The friction has left Hux more sensitive there than ever, though Hux has always been too sensitive, too responsive to touch. He’s hidden his vulnerability beneath his coats and gloves and his pinched sneer, and it’s taken Ren to break through, because Ren, of course, can read Hux’s mind. Suddenly the idea is erotic as well as frustrating. Hux wants to let Ren in, to show him all the secret ways he can give Hux this pleasure.

Ren covers Hux’s palms with tiny feather-light strokes of his tongue. His big nose nudges the heel of Hux’s hand, clumsy. Hux whines. He swallows the wetness in his mouth, struggles to keep his footing as his legs grow more unsteady with each brush of Ren’s dangerous lips.

“You have little scars,” says Ren into Hux’s palm, where he’s made it wet with his attentions. He raises his liquid eyes to Hux’s, and in this moment, with Ren’s head bent before him and his lips to Hux’s hand, Hux remembers Ren is a knight, pledged to serve.

“From your fingernails,” Ren says, without waiting for Hux to reply. “The way you clench your fists.”

Hux’s breath catches in his throat as Ren licks across each old crescent of white on the heels of his palms. He tries to think of some barb to throw back, some stab at Ren’s good fortune to have grown up in the New Republic instead of in exile in the Unknown Regions. But none of that seems important anymore. There’s none of Hux’s childhood terror in this moment, nothing that would make Hux wind himself tight in anticipation of cruelty. There’s only Ren’s mouth and Hux’s pleasure—a pleasure, for once, that drowns out old memories of pain.

Then Ren takes Hux’s index finger into his mouth and Hux cries out at the tight wet heat inside Ren’s mouth, _inside him_. Ren laves the smooth tip of his tongue over the pulp of Hux’s finger, tracing the ridges of his fingerprint, the neat curve of his nail. He keeps his teeth out of the way, sucking the length of Hux’s finger into his mouth until the tip of it is against Ren’s soft palate, enveloped in him. It’s impossible not to imagine Ren on his knees, giving the same attention to Hux elsewhere on his body. 

Hux has never done that, never allowed it. He’s made an effort to scare away everyone who would have wanted to debase him in this way. The First Order is no place to air vulnerabilities that could be turned against him. But here, now, it’s too late. If Ren were to pull back and ask Hux for the privilege of finishing him with his mouth, there’s no power in the Galaxy that could stop Hux from saying yes.

Ren doesn’t ask. He goes over Hux’s fingers on both hands, giving each digit the same thorough treatment. His tongue swirls around Hux’s knuckles, sucking them clean. Hux hurts with arousal, from his hole to his lower belly to the dripping head of his cock. It’s agony how close he is to coming without a touch. He doesn’t care about the humiliation of it anymore—Ren has already taken him to pieces with his mouth, seen Hux at his weakest. If Hux could put words together, he would beg.

Then Ren moves his mouth down to the web of thin skin between Hux’s index and middle fingers, lapping into the gap between them with ruthless, tender enthusiasm. Hux’s eyes fly open, seeing only white, and he cries out rough and sharp as he climaxes, falling forward weak-kneed into Ren’s arms. As his body goes tight with fierce pleasure, Hux has a fleeting thought of Ren’s erect cock between his wrists, and Ren’s voice saying _yours_. The light behind his eyes is annihilating, magnificent, like a burning star. 

The next thing Hux knows, his forehead is resting on Ren’s shoulder. His heart is pounding in his ears and his spit-wet fingers are clenched into fists in the front of Ren’s tunic. Ren’s hands are on his back, petting him, heavy and somehow calm.

Ren’s voice in his ear. “You’re so good,” he murmurs. “Good Hux.” Ridiculous. As though the First Order is a place for such a quaint thing as goodness.

But Hux lets Ren stroke his back and mumble his nonsense into Hux’s neck, as though they’re lovers. The thought is one that belongs to someone else’s life, not Hux’s, and it makes Hux’s chest feel tight, as though he’s sick deep in his lungs, unable to catch his breath.

When he can make no more excuses for himself, Hux pulls back, stands up, still not quite steady on his feet. His thoughts swirl with inconvenient feelings, which he shoves aside to put his head back into order. He’ll have to take a sonic, and change out of his uniform and have it sent to the laundry. It’s late enough that he should put on his dressing gown and the clothes he wears to sleep, which means Ren needs to leave, because whatever has happened here tonight, Ren doesn’t get to see Hux out of uniform, with his hair a mess and his legs bare. If the mere sight of Hux’s wrists sends Ren into paroxysms of lust, Ren’s reaction to Hux’s thighs doesn’t bear thinking about.

Hux thinks about it anyway. His cheeks burn, and he has to force himself not to glance away from Ren’s pouting face.

Ren is staring, as always. He’s probably reading Hux’s mind, the little pervert. What must it be like, to always play the voyeur? Powerful, but perhaps a bit lonely, too. Hux wouldn’t want to hear everyone else’s thoughts. Other people are too banal, too self-obsessed, too pointlessly cruel. It would be a curse, maddening, to have to sully his consciousness with the weak private musings of lesser men. No wonder Ren spends so much time at Hux’s heels. Hux’s mind is superior. If Ren can recognise that, perhaps there’s hope for the boy after all.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Ren says roughly. But in the back of his tawny eyes there’s something warm, almost like devotion, poorly hidden. Ren’s face shows everything. No wonder he hides behind a mask. But when he comes to Hux’s quarters, Ren leaves his helmet with his boots by the door.

This time Hux does avert his eyes. The terrible honesty of Ren’s features is too much. Hux is far more used to lies. Whatever this is, whatever is happening to him with Ren, he’ll never get used to it. 

“Go on,” says Hux. “Back to your quarters. It’s late.”

Ren nods, sticking out his lower lip. His features are blank now, almost cold. He slides down from Hux’s desk and adjusts his cock in his leggings again, brazen, as though reminding Hux that what they’ve done can’t be erased. As though Hux needs reminding. The memory already pounds in his head like an ache. To get to sleep, he’ll have to take one of the sedatives in his medkit.

In another Galaxy, in another universe, there’s another version of Hux who would ask Ren to stay, to come to bed, to take down more of the walls Hux has built between himself and everything else. Perhaps that version of Hux isn’t loyal first and foremost to the First Order. Perhaps that version of Hux can read minds.

Hux thinks of this as Ren puts on his boots, then his helmet. As Ren slips out into the hall and shuts the door behind him, Hux turns away.

Alone, in silence, Hux allows himself the briefest, smallest smile at the impossible thought that either of them could ever be anything but what they are. Their stubborn selves, ruthless and inconvenient.

**Author's Note:**

> The idea for Hux’s palm scars comes from someone on twitter, I forget whom...but if you’re reading this, thanks and hi!
> 
> Yell at me about Hux’s wrists on [twitter](https://twitter.com/sternfleck). I also have [tumblr](https://sternfleck.tumblr.com/) now.


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